Empty Casings
by ibuberu
Summary: The first rifle he holds is stripped of its bullets. — ColoLal.


**Characters** – Lal Mirch, Colonello  
**Pairings** – ColoLal  
**Genres** – General, Romance, Drama  
**Note(s)** – _(Request #3)_ 'kora' was substituted with 'hey' here. And this is in the top three of my favourite fics of this request batch. Please love it as much as I do!  
**Disclaimer** – _Katekyo Hitman Reborn!_ isn't owned by me.

* * *

**Empty Casings**

**-**

He examined the firearm in his hands, the metallic sheen of the dense iron catching the fluorescent lights of the hanger they were currently resting in. The rifle was unexpectedly heavy and uncertain in his tightening hold, but he was very sure that it was meant to be a lightweight model, made for darting around efficiently on the harrowing battlefield. He squeezed its sleek body before turning up to doctor the numerous small, COMSUBIN planes resting in the large room, some in repair, some preparing to take a cruise down the runway located at the edge of the military base.

Colonello then concluded that the planes _must_ have felt lighter and sturdier – because they did not have the capability to kill. He quickly returned his attention to his assault rifle and easily replayed the skills that had been drilled into him during the hellish boot camp he had miraculously survived through. He cracked open the barrel of the gun, only to realise that his commander had failed to include bullet cartridges in the chambers of the rifle. He jumped to his feet and marched over the woman standing outside the hanger. Her lean arms were folded defensively as she circumvented the base camp and its working soldiers under a watchful eye. "This is empty, hey!" he informed her quite pointedly with a shout.

She turned to face him so that her rigid back was gone and he could only see the unflattering grimace crossing her well-chiselled features. She responded grudgingly with her signature evil eye and a hard, stubborn frown. "Learn to aim perfectly first – a loaded rifle is a privilege, maggot," she bit back, her voice tasting harsh and bitter. The red flames in her eyes contradicted sharply with the deep blue of her hair – but still, she managed to look attractive in her own unique way. Maybe he just loved the way she carried herself.

But Colonello drew back with shoulders tensed and eyebrow raised either way. Well, she certainly wasn't the most approachable captain – but then again, who was? Everyone had had their share of gory battles and suffocating injuries. And he would share the experience too, once he had finished his training with her. He decided to place a hand on her shoulder in a friendly gesture of understanding, producing a joking smile for extra measure. Surely Lal Mirch would lighten up.

In the span of three seconds, he felt the taste of mud in his mouth all over again.

Just like boot camp, only with a beautiful, albeit monstrous female towering overhead.

* * *

On the first few battlefields, ranging from Italy to China to Japan, he was left as a messenger and a supporting soldier, torn away from the onslaught of the frontlines. And whenever he _did_ venture out to said lines, it was to pass on a piece of leaked information about the enemy. Lal Mirch wiped the sweat from her eyes and glared at him as she reloaded her sniper rifle with inhumane deftness. She would listen intently to his muttering, eyes fixated and concerned on him – one of the perks of his job. Then, when the rain of bullets died down, would take it upon herself to point out every single mistake he made. From not lowering his head enough to leaving his bootlaces untied in the rush to relay the message.

"If you want your head to get shot clear off or trip over a land mine, _by all means_," Lal growled.

He raised an apologetic hand out to her, only to get it slapped away after a moment's passing. He grinned rashly at the action, the smile refusing to leave his face as he retracted his hand. She fumed at him and his frustrating mannerisms, slinging her rifle over her cold shoulder and proceeding to depart from the aftermath of the day's battle. He followed suit, gathering his knapsacks and joining the others as they packed up to leave the bloodied area. But as the whole platoon walked back to camp, silent and mourning for the people that had been badly injured and lost, he held back, carrying a large share of the group's rations and medicine. Somehow, the crushing weight did not seem to be the same as the burden the army of men struggled to carry on their backs.

He glanced over his shoulder, only to realise that Lal Mirch was bringing up the rear alone. Her uniform was muddy and torn, her gaze solemn and fixed to the ground. He turned around and starting towards her, placing a tight-lipped quirk to his lips.

"Hey!" he called out.

As she abruptly looked up and caught his eye, she gripped the strap of her rifle harder and proceeded to yell madly at him for lagging behind the pack. He nodded and nodded, but still, he smiled just for her – and on her behalf.

Perhaps, one day, his optimism would be able to reach her.

* * *

The enthralling scent of dirt, sweat and gunpowder was permeating thick in the air. He crouched skilfully, his bullet-proofed chest barely touching the soil of the ground. He shifted his army boots in anticipation, both laces secure in double butterflies. The butt of his assault rifle was digging deep into his hip, his hands gripping the body and trigger guard in dire, perfected preparation. Everyone in the trench had laboured breathing, some grinning wildly, others with seriousness etched firm on their faces. And she was to his left, back against the wall of soil that shielded them from a good majority of the enemy's projectiles.

There was no opening for them to initiate a counterattack – their rifles were near useless now. He gritted his teeth and searched his equipped belt for a grenade he had attached just in case. As he unclasped the bombing tool from its clip at his waist, he thought about the chances of him surviving if he stood up to lob the grenade. He couldn't throw it from his current huddled position – it would not travel far enough. He glanced briefly at Lal Mirch, her eyes unfocused and mouth frowning in a detached sort of way. Even if she refused to admit it, the mission was tiring her far too much.

Kicking caution out of the window, he jumped to his feet and ripped the spoon from the grenade with his mouth. He launched it into the fray quickly, before ducking for cover, feeling bullets graze his cheek and protective headgear a fraction of a second too late. As the grenade detonated and sent smoke pouring out over the vicinity, they readily grasped the chance of retreat, boots pounding against the gravels and stones. He held onto her wrist instinctively, pulling her along in the beginning.

After a few bouts of frantic running, he realised that Lal was the one leading him instead.

Throughout the entirety of the treatment of their wounds, the woman grunted and glared daggers – but really, more like sharpened choppers – at him in the makeshift infirmary of the temporary camp. As a nurse wrapped a bandage around his skinned arm and nagged at him from his clumsiness, Lal Mirch remained seated a chair away with only cotton laced with disinfect plastered on her shoulder to show for her injuries. The stinging sensation of disinfectants and ethanol did too little to deter the smile from gracing his lips.

"Idiot, one more stunt like that, and you'll be on kitchen duty for one solid month," the woman threatened.

"Don't be so harsh, hey!" Colonello laughed it off with ease and gave her a gentle, apologetic slap on the arm. No other woman could care quite as much, or as uniquely, as her. When she made no motion to shrug his hand off or rip his head to shreds, his heart warmed and the smile deepened on his face. Not that Lal Mirch would have noticed, she was too busy chewing her lip and blushing so adorably.

* * *

Sometimes, in between polishing and cleaning his rifle, he thought about the happiness he could have experienced, had his COMSUBIN days gone by slower. Then he grinned in a sad way, his lips curling weakly into a smile he reserved for only when he was alone, and when Lal wasn't around to catch him with his guard down. He gave his seagull an absent stroke on its feathery crown, staring out at the sea reaching out to the orange horizon from Mafia Land, never once forgetting that she was somewhere just beyond that very ocean.

So Colonello could smile all he wanted.

* * *

They heard that the Millefiore's next Arcobaleno target was Viper. And of course, he would have to be the one to go to the mist guardian's aid. Lal Mirch protested like the person she was, refusing to believe that he thought he would be able to protect the illusionist alone. He smirked playfully and addressed her with strict eyes, in the fashion he knew she liked – but pretended to hate – just to get her to keep quiet. She had grown, while he was still just a baby. He already had better mobility than her – and that was without taking his flying compatriot into account. And she still had a duty to the Vongola, under CEDEF and Sawada Tsunayoshi's call. It was her duty to stay put.

The girl rioted and wore an outraged countenance as she stomped around the room, her fists clenched at her sides. He knew that she was going to stay, as much as she didn't want to – Lal Mirch was always powerful like that. She knew how to put every important thing before her own desires.

So that was that, and he was assigned to search for Viper.

On the night he was preparing to go, twirling the faithful bullets in his hands and smelling the fresh scent of asphalt and rusting metal in the training room, he was not surprised when Lal Mirch appeared at the doorway and walked distractedly into the otherwise empty room. He was, of course, delighted. They shared a moment of understandable silence as she stood next to him, not bothering to sit down on the floor at his left. She wasn't good with love and affection, in that sense. But he could live with that. Hell, he liked that.

"You aren't going to wish me good luck, hey?" He inquired as Falco rested lazily on his blonde nest of hair, his voice teasing but hopeful underneath a well-played façade. The oiled firearm was large in his baby fingers, but by no means, unfamiliar and out of place. He flexed his hands experimentally and played with the alluring trigger, the cool metal of the rifle reassuring under his touch. He then regarded the blue-haired girl – but really, a woman – standing next to him with his honest emerald eyes.

She looked away from his gaze as she knotted her brow, before mumbling a meek, reluctant – but sincere – "Good luck."

He hated being an infant at titular times like these – if he had been a grown man, he would have swept her in his arms and hugged her tight. But no matter, he would do that next time, surely.

* * *

She digs her wet cheek into the prickling softness of his blue bandana, and can nearly hear his irritating 'hey's echo in her ringing ears. She immediately forbids herself from wishing anyone _good luck_ ever again.

The final rifle Lal Mirch receives with an almost-dead heart and heavy red eyes – the last rifle Colonello holds in two callous hands that were once comforting and strong, now only woefully blood-stained and limp,

– is stripped of its bullets.

* * *

**end.**


End file.
